In the summer of 1971, Gisèle Pelicot was stung between the eyes by a wasp. “The venom was circulating, my eyelids were so swollen I could barely see.” That evening, at her aunt’s house, Dominique walked into the kitchen. She was 19, and it was fate. “This man was going to fall in love with me,” she writes. “My life . . . was about to take on a new purpose”.
To rewrite this moment would be to paint the wasp sting as an omen. But instead Pelicot lets the image sit as a detail amid the pull of new love.
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